Searching for My Stoner Queen

If there’s such a thing as romantic weed smoking, it’s different from the massive bong hits and rolling contests of homeydom. It's more intimate. Two people meet, decide that they like each other, and want to explore each other more deeply, that is explore each other's lifted domes. Weed can be a particularly potent catalyst for a kind of hazy and hot connection. Of course, I can think that all I want, and it won’t stop shit like the following from happening.

Janet was tending the bar at a venue out of town where I was performing. My country-punk band was opening for a comedian who was as unsettled about our pairing as we were, and the crowd was thin enough that I could easily start talking to Janet. Through a thin veil of professional boredom, I could tell I’d at the very least piqued her interest, but we were soon parted by a miscommunication rooted in the unpredictability of post-show party locations. Disappointed though I was, I vowed to have another opportunity to meet this mysterious beautiful girl on a less hectic night.

I got my chance when I was back in town a few weeks later to play another show at a venue Janet didn’t work at. I asked her to meet me outside the venue, and she showed up fashionably late and looking fly as hell. I grew increasingly smitten as we stood outside the entrance talking. Finally, my bandmate fetched me so we could take the stage, and we descended into the venue.

This was a prime situation for coolness points. Chilling in the green room, knowing the bands, and relaying very grave and important information to the soundman all added to the aura that I hoped was impressing Janet. I didn’t have fake rock-star balls to match this façade, and so I didn’t make any major moves the whole time we were at the show. I just tried to be a gentleman and maintain my composure. Playing a fairly solid set gave me enough gusto to ask her to come back to the crash house.

It was raining as we piled into the cab, and suddenly I had Janet squeezed next to me with my arm around her. She was comfortable. All my work for the night was done: show slayed, money collected, girl wooed. Now all that was left to do was roll back to the spot, smoke a serious fatty, and see where the rest of the night led.

By now, everything I learned about Janet captivated me. Our weird senses of humor converged and we made each other laugh about nothing, spiraling into increasingly intimate territory. Suddenly, everyone else in the room reappeared when someone lit a joint.

Janet mentioned she didn’t smoke that often but didn’t hesitate for a second to smash a couple of pro hits off the joint when it got to her. At this point, I felt safe enough unleashing some played-out game, so I told her how hot she looked smoking a joint, then asked her to join me on the balcony for a cigarette.

Away from the crowd, we both noticed how blazed we were and we stared off the balcony and talked for just a moment about her fear of heights when I got my nerve up and turned to face her. I had her full attention. I was a microsecond away from leaning in to kiss her when my buddy Paul walked out onto the balcony to smoke a cigarette. Gaaahh, Paul. I love you, but what the fuck man. What the hell ass fuck. He was wasted, and while I usually have a great time talking to wasted Paul, I needed to change venues quick if I wanted anything to progress with Janet.

I led her back inside, giving Paul some subtle bulging eyeballs on the way. It was then, re-entering through the kitchen when Janet bugged out. I was still in the doorway when she suddenly seized up, clutched the stove for support, and began convulsing. As her head cocked back and forth, she joltingly explained roughly that the combination of being really stoned and thinking about her fear of heights was leading to a freak-out.

I didn't know what to do. I angled and re-angled my body like I was about to lift an awkwardly shaped box. Her convulsions quickly subsided, and I gave her some water and brought her back to the couch. Now I felt bad. Janet was all kinds of fucked up. She was coherent, but her eyes kept shutting and then shooting open like she was having a head rush. My buddies started to notice and began rattling off a veritable encyclopedia of home remedies for this sort of thing, debunking each other’s ideas, and turning way more attention on poor Janet than she could handle. Only partially recovered from her ordeal, she headed for the door, reached it, sat on the ground for about a minute, and then got up and walked out.

I walked Janet down to catch her a cab and apologized profusely for how the night had turned out. What I naturally assumed would bring us closer together ended up temporarily decommissioning her motor functions, and, worst of all, embarrassing her in front of a bunch of people she just met. Needless to say, Janet pretty much never wanted to hang out with me after that. And it occurred to me that a relationship between the two of us would likely go nowhere. Weed is essential enough to my lifestyle that I don’t think I can truly connect with someone prone to reacting badly to its effects. Maybe one day I’ll have the Thurgood Jenkins epiphany and abandon haze for love, but in the meantime I’m gonna roll two fatties and await my stoner queen.